Guilty as a Grim Reaper

At daybreak, the messenger was killed by my hand; I grasped and cleaved the life where it once grew, Claiming it selfishly for my own eyes to view. Violet allured and the desire began to expand. Each morning the secret scent of future days Secretes whirlwinds of intoxicating haze. A lustful hunger overtook what was planned. Before snapping root to stem, a final call ­before the knell: The delicate crocuses whispered, “Spring,” then softly fell.